


Dirty Chai

by jack_the_giantkiller



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jack_the_giantkiller/pseuds/jack_the_giantkiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“First you take my drink, then you spray it all over my favorite coat.” The man is glaring, furious, and Cullen can’t blame him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Chai

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by somekindofcontraption, who said it was a shame that there was a drink called a Dirty Chai and there weren't any coffeeshop AUs entitled Dirty Chai. 
> 
> A dirty chai is a shot of espresso mixed into a chai tea latte. A dead eye is three shots of espresso in a cup of coffee. _Not_ for the faint of heart.

Cullen is dead on his feet. He wants to whimper in pain; his head is fuzzy and throbbing with a crushing pressure that he can't escape. 

He’s a regular at this particular coffee shop, or at least is beginning to become one. He’d moved into the neighborhood a few weeks before, and had immediately found the closest place to get his caffeine fix, the only thing that even dulls the headache.

Over the buzzing in his head he hears “One dead eye! Come and get it!” He makes his way up the counter, grasping at the cup, and the dark, steaming ambrosia contained within. He doesn’t bother getting a lid for it, instead taking a deep gulp.

He sprays whatever the hell it was out of his mouth. _Not_ his dead eye. Shit. He opens his eyes to see the mess he’s made, and sees a man in a no-longer-white coat, blinking and beginning to fume.

“First you take my drink, then you spray it all over my _favorite_ coat.” The man is glaring, furious, and Cullen can’t blame him.

He winces, he can see the damage done to the ridiculous looking coat. “I’m so sorry—I thought I heard... well. I can pay for the wash?”

“This is suede, you barbarian. It’s a thousand-dollar coat and you've just ruined it.” The man glares at him, eyes narrow, eyebrows raised. Then he stops. He lifts Cullen’s chin with two fingers and peers carefully into his eyes. Cullen can’t help but flinch at the touch and the light. “Keep the drink. You need it more than I do,” the man says. “There’s a good dry cleaner about two blocks that way, near the park. _I_ am going to go drop off my coat, and _you_ are going to stay here until they remake my drink, and bring it to me. It’s a dirty chai.” He’s stripping out of the coat as he speaks, and Cullen swallows as the man reveals a tight shirt that clings to his body.

“I’ll be seeing you, then.” He gives Cullen a curt nod and leaves.

Suddenly, the scene rushes to his senses again, the chatter of the crowd, overwhelming scent of brewing coffee—he can taste the man’s ‘dirty chai’, and it’s actually not that bad, now that he isn’t expecting it to be his dead eye.

His actual drink arrives shortly after, and Cullen sips at it, hoping it will help the headache as he waits in line to order the man’s tea. He orders a second dead eye when he does; he has a suspicion he’ll need it.

* * *

Cullen walks the short distance to the local park— he’s fairly certain this is the one the man meant. When he gets there, the man is sitting at one of the wrought iron tables; he’s tapping his fingers irritably, but looks less annoyed than he did when he left the coffee shop.

“Luckily, they believe they can salvage my coat,” the man says as Cullen walks up.

“I am so, so sorry.”

“Yes, you should be. Might I have my drink now?” The man’s tone is arch, and Cullen finds himself resenting it a little bit. He hands the man his drink, careful not to slosh it so as to cause another problem.

He sips at his coffee, brain quieting as the caffeine starts to hit his system and the lyrium headache starts to fade. He sighs in relief.

Then there are fingers on his chin again, tilting his head up to look the other man square in the eye.

“How long have you been in withdrawal?”

Cullen yanks away from the man’s touch, “Excuse me?”

“Headaches, those eyes, the caffeine fix, your hands are shaking… you’re in withdrawal from something. Probably a stimulant.” The man rolls his eyes.

“...two months.”

The man’s eyes are suddenly focused on him, sharply examining him. “And it’s still this bad? Are you seeing a doctor or psychiatrist about this?”

“Both,” Cullen admits. “Just got back from Kirkwall.”

“And Kirkwall is nearly a warzone. Veteran, I assume.”

“Yes. Am I ever going to know anything beyond the fact that you walk around in a thousand dollar coat that’s almost impossible to clean?”

The man laughs. “Well, it costs a thousand dollars _because_ it’s impossible to clean, first of all. And I’m Dorian. I’m a doctor, actually. And I would tell your withdrawal supervisor about the caffeine; if you were addicted to a stimulant, the caffeine is probably relieving the pain by reacting to your nervous system the way the drug was.”

“I’m Cullen. The caffeine’s the only thing that always helps,” he admits. “And sometimes it’s the only thing that keep me functioning I—” He stops, dead. He’d been about to confess to a stranger things he’d only recently managed to work up the courage to tell his shrink.

Dorian merely watches him.

He swallows, and goes ahead anyway. If Dorian’s a doctor, it’s far from the worst thing he’s ever heard. “I was living with my sister and her kids. One morning, I’d fallen asleep on the couch, and one of the kids jumped on me— I woke up screaming, and threw him off me. I nearly attacked him. Thank the Maker he wasn’t hurt, but I couldn’t stay there. That’s what I am without the caffeine.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re brave, admitting that you need the help.” Dorian says quietly, and Cullen looks up to meet his eyes. The man is smiling gently, obviously meant to be reassuring. “Not everyone does, and sometimes they do hurt their families, themselves. You’re getting help.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” Cullen admits, “It’s not getting better— I still wake up screaming most nights, and I feel—” Paranoid, his mind supplies. “Anxious,” is what he says instead. “It’s nearly all the time. I’m looking for a job, but I feel like a wreck.”

“I know this doesn’t really help, but it does take time.” Dorian hums quietly, obviously thinking. “I’d be honest with your doctor. And there are other options.” He blinks suddenly. “I’m sorry, you clearly didn’t come to me for a medical opinion.”

“No, it’s fine.” Cullen tries to smile. “Sometimes it just feels hopeless. It’s nice to know that I’m not completely hopeless.”

“I can’t say there’s always hope, but… I think in your case, there is every reason to hope it will get better.” Dorian relaxes back in his chair, feet nudging against Cullen’s. “You’re a strong man, and trying hard. You seem to have a support network. You’ve got a lot going for you. I admire that.”

Cullen flushes at the praise, at Dorian’s closeness. “Thank you.” Clearing his throat. “I promised I’d pay for your dry cleaning.”

“No, it’s alright. I was upset rather than sincere— unless you’d been an arsehole. Then I might have left you to foot the bill.” Dorian grins suddenly. “It does rather ruin my plans though.”

“Ruins your— what?”

“You see, I’d rather hoped to write my number on it.” Dorian’s gaze is warm and wanting.

Cullen freezes, too shocked to speak. Dorian closes off, immediately cool, and forces a smile. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”

“No! It’s fine. I just—”

“You’re not interested.”

Frustrated, Cullen says, “No, if you’d let me finish. I am— very much so. But I’m not sure I’m in a position to… to do any sort of relationship. And I’m not a casual person, when it comes to this.” He hopes Dorian understands what he means; he isn’t sure he could explain it.

“Ah.” Dorian hums. “Well, I can certainly understand that,” he says. “What if I give you my number anyway, and perhaps we could talk sometime. You, of course, may decide what you will, and I will not simply pine waiting for you. But perhaps we could be friends, and if anything should happen down the line, it would simply be a bonus.”

“I’d like that,” Cullen smiles shyly. “It’s— it’s surprisingly easy to talk to you. I would like to be friends.”

“It’s settled then!” Dorian takes out his phone. “What’s your number?”

Cullen rattles it off, and smiles. It's the first time he's had hope for the future in a long time.


End file.
